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America's Proud Tradition of Turkey Pardons

Is anyone else sick of the president pardoning a turkey every single Thanksgiving?  It's the very definition of an empty gesture.  Each year, the president stands around snickering and posing with a turkey that's been specifically raised for the ceremony and never intended to be eaten.  He also pardons the "alternate turkey," the vice-president of turkeys, who is there just in case the original one dies of natural causes before the ceremony.  Two completely useless turkeys.  They're not even released into the wild, either.  They're sent to Disney World to be waved around on a parade float by some underpaid kid in a Goofy suit who reeks of salicylic acid and nacho cheese.  Maybe that's a relief after being groped by a dude who smells like a furtively chugged bottle of crème de menthe.  And nacho cheese.

But wait, the gesture gets even emptier.  Without the turkey, what will the White House have for Thanksgiving dinner?  Is this their one vegetarian meal of the year?  No, they just eat a different turkey.  Now, I'm not saying this bait and switch, this ritualized killing of millions of birds on one day while pretending to venerate the life of one specially chosen bird, might somehow epitomize a particularly American strain of cheerfully bloody-minded ignorance -- that's what I'm not saying -- but if you're going to waste the president's time, don't make him look like a hypocrite.  Either eat turkey or pardon turkeys.  Pick a tradition and commit to it, President Bush.  That turkey you gave away might have been delicious, and as you grudgingly masticate your bone-dry substitute bird, your thoughts return to the one that waddled away.  Is he happy in Goofy's arms?  Does he even remember you?  You're reminded of his pink, wattled face every time you look across the table at Laura.  Are you choking down turkey, Mr. President, or are you choking down tears?

Technorati Tags: Thanksgiving, turkey, pardons, George W Bush, hypocrisy

The Darjeeling Limited, 6/8

Finally saw The Darjeeling Limited.  It was OK.  One really funny bit, one really sad bit, and the best character by far was Jack, the youngest brother.   He's sexpertly played by the suave Jason Schwartzman, seducing sexy ladies with his sexy style.  Anyway, it's just like every other Wes Anderson movie, and I can sum it up in about five words: Meticulously quirky symbolic family pathos.  If I had three bonus words, they'd be "slow motion photography."

Or, "Natalie Portman's ass."  Everyone knows about that already.  Disappointing.  I'm not much of a Natalie Portman fan, but I went in there with an open mind, and honestly, her ass just didn't grab me.  It's sad, really.  Imagine having your ass described as "underwhelming."

Schwartzman co-wrote the script, which may explain why he's the one who unveils Natalie Portman's ass and spends the rest of the movie bringing sexy back and not bothering to wear shoes.  Hopefully he's not responsible for Darjeeling's chronic case of Important Symbolism.  Wes Anderson movies all do it, but this one's the worst yet.  Every other scene is stuffed with very, very meaningful symbols, highlighted by songs whose lyrics directly relate to the scene, plus the whole damn thing's in slow motion.  I was able to predict the entire damn ending of the movie based on the blatant symbolism of the first few scenes.  I guess I shouldn't "ruin" it, so I'll make up something equally obvious and punny.  In the first scene, three kittens watch their dad get hit by a fish delivery truck and inherit his favorite ball of yarn.  At the end, the kittens wrestle a shark and lose because the yarn has gotten all tangly and their dad never taught them how to use scissors.  In slow-mo, of course, and as for the soundtrack, you know that old song about how the cat's in the cradle with the silver spoon?  Something less subtle.

Granted, I had plenty of time to work out the details thanks to the fact that the movie takes twenty minutes wondering how to end.  It can't decide which obvious gesture would really get the message across, because guess what?  You can only dumb something down so much.  I can't "get it" any more.  There's actually a joke about how the oldest brother keeps searching for meaning in everything.  That's not clever, it's just annoying.  Oh, and the running gag about how the youngest brother writes stories based on his life, but insists that the characters are all fictional.  This is in case you did not get the joke with the oldest brother.  There is a series of symbolic safety nets to make sure you understand this terribly difficult movie. 

Also, the safety nets are equipped with training wheels, and encased in bubble wrap.  My excessive explanation is intended to satirize The Darjeeling Limited's excessive symbolism, and this bit of explanation satirizes the wink-and-nod tone that purportedly excuses such authorial indulgence.

See how that's annoying?  Do you get it?  Do I need to do it more?

Anyway, it's a decent movie despite itself, and it was better than Fred Claus, which I didn't see, but I'm sure that's true.  I give it 6 out of 8 stars and refuse to reduce that fraction to its lowest terms.  Work it out yourself.

Technorati Tags: The Darjeeling Limited, Jason Schwartzman, Natalie Portman, booty letdown, symbolism, fractions, brothers, kittens

Use Your Words

There are literally dozens of words in the English language, and if you want to make it all the way to the secret bonus words (like sesquipedalian, recursion, and portmanteau), you need to expand your vocabulary a little each day.  FreeRice offers a quick, challenging vocabulary quiz with a humanitarian twist; for each correct answer, their sponsors donate 10 grains of rice to hungry people throughout the world via the U.N. World Food Program.  Ten grains may not seem like much, but I played for just a couple of minutes, and earned 400 grains.  Then I measured some rice out on the kitchen table and found out it's a little over two teaspoons.  That would cook up to two tablespoons, if it made sense to cook up that little rice, which of course it doesn't.  Lesson learned: if I play for at least ten easy minutes a day, within a week I'll have an edible amount of rice.  Bonus lesson: rice goes everywhere.  Maybe by the end of the week, I'll have found all the stray grains.  If I threw some boiling water on the floor, they'd swell up and be easier to find.  Be right back.

As a game, FreeRice is very simple but has some nice design features.  A picture of a rapidly-filling bowl provides a little visual reward for every right answer.  Every incorrect answer is a little learning experience, as they immediately display the right choice, along with another question, a tempting chance for redemption.  The ads are simple and unobtrusive, and the game starts on the main page and rolls right along.  Click, click, learn, click, earn more grains, get a little hungry thinking about it, check to see if the floor rice is ready.  (Nope, it still hasn't absorbed all the water.  I threw in a little butter for flavor.)  The difficulty adjusts automatically, using a GRE-like initial assessment and tier system.  I got up to 49 out of 50.  In your face, English!

[SPOILER ALERT]

My favorite word so far was burgoo, which I happened to know as a thick gruel served to 18th century seamen, and nowadays as a soup they make down South.  I just enjoy it when a food-related word comes up.  It's like attacking an enemy in Bookworm Adventures with the word fisticuffs.  Southern burgoo goes well with rice, in fact.  Speaking of rice, I'm pleased to say that my kitchen floor rice was a tour de force of culinary invention.  The butter and saffron (I added saffron) complete the rice's subtle flavor profile, and the slightly caramelized dust bunnies really make the linoleum flavor "pop."  But there's no time to rest on my laurels.  I've got vocabulary to learn, rice to donate, and if I start to feel peckish, storm gutter pilaf.

 

Technorati Tags: FreeRice, Poverty Center, world hunger, rice, burgoo, Bookworm Adventures, fusion cuisine, Michelin stars

Search Engine Awesomization

Oh, it's such a hackneyed Internet trope, but after six months of hits from increasingly curious search queries, it's time for the banditos to spit into the wind.  This site will not be defined by some random strangers' search terms, damn it!  Virtually everyone who happens across this site has been searching for porn.  Really specific porn, too.  Points for inventiveness, you guys, but if you think about it, that scenario is crazy unrealistic.  It sounds fun but the remainder of your life after that point would just be a letdown.  Best case scenario, you spend most of your waking hours reminiscing and applying salve.

Anyway, let's respond to some other odd search queries.  These terms have no real connection with Banditos! Banditos! Banditos!, and no one here is qualified to address them in any way.  The truly brilliant thing is that by writing about them, the site becomes even more closely linked to these dumb, irrelevant subjects in Google's perversely robotic mind.

"killing bugs is murder"  Oh, come now, killing bugs is murder like chewing gum is dinner.   

"paella rice vesus risotto rice"  You either misspelled "versus" or "Jesus," but here's your answer.  Paella rice is medium grain rice, and the stuff you get in the store usually has saffron mixed in already.  Paella cooks slowly in plenty of liquid, so you can't use risotto rice, which is short grain arborio.  You're even supposed to burn paella a little at the bottom.  Don't burn risotto.  No one likes that.  Burning risotto is murder.

"where is God when it hurts"  Wow.  Really?  OK, look, God should be the last thing on your mind when you're hurting.  Medical studies have shown that getting all religious and pray-ey totally screws your chances of recovery.  If you invite God into your heart when you're sick, God is like, "Oh, you want to hang out with me?" and then bam, you die.  They revoked God's medical license in like, the year 3.  Go see a real doctor.

Besides, what are you, God's mom?  He's off in some unknown corner of the universe doing secret deity stuff.  Maybe He's getting everyone in the office to sign a big card for you.  Way to ruin the surprise.

"i feel sorry for the men i won't be doing this forever"  These are song lyrics, but isn't it nice to think about someone just typing that into Google?  Just kind of a random thought.  "I'm afraid to watch Desparate Housewives because I think I might catch an STI."

"how to make a hat stay on a dog"  How, indeed.  Helps if you feed the dog treats, so she knows it's playtime.  Helps if it's your dog, or you have permission.  If not, you're a rude friend or inefficient burglar.  Helps if you talk it up beforehand, about how hats are the new collars, and how you saw the Pokey Little Puppy wearing this hat just before he landed that book contract.

"why Marie Curie didn't believe in God"  Didn't she, now?  Maybe God's not as impressive once you've played around with radioactive stuff.  Even mercury makes God look a little dull.

"homemade banditos"  Ah, crunchy, cheesy, delicious homemade banditos.  You can make them in the microwave or the toaster oven.  With a little masa and time, you can make hot, fresh tortillas, crisp them up, and smother them in chili con queso.  Mmm!

Wait, you did say nachos, right?  No?  Homemade banditos?  What does that even mean?  No one makes banditos at home.  You make banditos in a hideout.  It takes like four hours, two pistoleros, some loot from a train heist, migas . . . that may be where you got confused.  The banditos themselves are not edible.  Outlaws are not snacks.  Similarly, you'll never have to head some nachos off at the pass.

And one last term.  This is absolutely real:

"simple paragrap about if you are going to died as a teenager what are three important things you will like to take in your tomb"

Hm.  A whole paragrap?  Well, it's too late to answer this one anyway.  It's from a few months ago and by now that poor kid will have succumbed to his advanced case of Internet Grammar Tuberculosis.  Goodbye, little searcher.  He's in Heaven now, Googling for angel porn.

Technorati Tags: Google searches, banditos, welcome to the Internet, population fun

Post-Halloween Analysis

In retrospect, my previous statements regarding ghosts were ill-advised and not borne out by the facts, although I remind you that they were based on the best possible evidence at the time.  Declarations such as, "There's no such thing as ghosts," "I ain't afraid of no ghosts," and "Ghosts?  Bah!" should never be spoken aloud in situations where ghosts are likely to hear and take offense, and never, ever on Halloween.  I apologize to all ghosts who may have misinterpreted my words.  What I meant to say was that statistically, when conducting a census or poll, ghosts don't exist.  It's horribly unfair, of course, and I urge you to voice your protests at the Pew Research Center and not waste your efforts moaning from deep within my closet or under my bed.  I can't change the rules of statistical analysis single-handedly, and even if I could, I need my solid eight hours or I'm absolutely dead all day.  You know what that's like.

Zombies, also known as the undead, are a whole different story.  There is no way I could have foreseen their arrival.  While ghosts can be filed under "life after death," the undead defy categorization.  Eating people is one thing, but defying categorization is unforgivably rude and antisocial.  Zombies -- and I know you can hear me out there, even through the boards on the windows -- what you're doing is wrong, but more than that, your very existence is silly.  Check the Internet sometime, you're a joke.  I can't believe how easy it was to bring you back to life, excuse me, "undeath."  I thought I would have to perform some kind of complicated ritual.  Instead, I just leaned down into a fresh grave and shouted, "Oh no!  We're late!" and you jumped right out of death.  If you make a choice, commit to it.  Say what you will about ghosts, they have personalized goals and stick to them with a single-minded devotion.  "Hungry" isn't a life plan.

Finally, I would like to address the vampire issue.  Vampires are not ghosts.  Vampires are not zombies.  But most importantly, vampires are not helpful.  Having invited dozens of vampires to a Halloween party that can only be described as a spooky fiasco is a mistake I will never repeat again, no matter what post-death form I eventually choose.  Vampires refuse to negotiate with ghosts and have no way to beat back endless waves of zombies.  Still, despite their uselessness and frustrating mood swings, I value their opinions in this crisis.  I would say that technically, they are living beings, just that their lives are exceptionally morbid and depressing.  Emily Dickinson, technically, was a living being.  As a fellow living being, for now, I should throw my lot in with the vampires, but it's hard to do that when they keep looking at me, then the punch bowl, then at me again.  Yes, I know, it's sangria.  I wasn't sure what you'd like.

I've held out for long enough.  Time to make my decision.  What should I "be" for Halloween?

[  ]  A ghost

[  ]  A zombie

[  ]  A vampire

[X]  lessss of a miiiiiserrrr . . . chaaaange your waaaays . . .

Cut it out, ghosts.  I know that was you.  Wow, Halloween's barely over and already I've got the Christmas ghosts.  It gets worse every year.

Technorati Tags: Halloween, ghosts, zombies, vampires, yarn of the dead